


Temptation/Despair

by im_gera_okay



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hope vs. Despair, Patronus Charm (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_gera_okay/pseuds/im_gera_okay
Summary: When Harry Potter doesn't master the Patronus Charm at age thirteen.
Kudos: 15





	Temptation/Despair

When Harry Potter was thirteen years old, Dementors came to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

It happened because people were afraid– because the last era of darkness and fear had only ended twelve years ago, because there was another coming and the scent of it hung in the air. With the triumph of the people’s savior had come the knowledge that someone had betrayed them all. 

Sirius Black was not the traitor, but he was the one who escaped Azkaban, and the world didn’t know who he really was. What he was was a broken and ravaged man. He was only mostly sane, and he was definitely not okay, and he had always been young and foolish and stupid and reckless and loyal to the point of death. These were flaws, and Sirius Black would never get the chance to grow up. 

Peter Pettigrew was a rat in the depths of his soul, and he was trapped inside of a man’s body that had been shaped like a rat for thirteen years. He had been strong and good and brave once, but that was a long time ago. Then there had been a war, and people were always scared and suspicious, and Peter Pettigrew lived on the edge between two lives. And then he was given an opportunity to save himself. It takes a special brand of bravery to kill your closest friends to save yourself. This was a flaw, and Peter Pettigrew would stumble upon it again in his life, and it would kill him. 

Remus Lupin was a werewolf; he was aging and grey and tired, and he looked closer to fifty than thirty. He was working at Hogwarts because he owed the Headmaster for the best years of his life, and he could not say no to him. This was a flaw. Albus Dumbledore frequently called upon Remus Lupin to do impossible things, but this was the worst of them all: to stand and protect the boy who was once his nephew, but to not engage with him; to ward off Sirius Black, who had once been a cornerstone of his whole world, and who had left an empty hole behind him. 

So that was the state of things, and Dementors boarded the Hogwarts Express when nearly three hundred students were on board. 

By luck, or chance, or destiny, Harry Potter and his friends sat in a train car with Remus Lupin. Many people suffered on the train that day: Twelve-year-old Ginny Weasley, who had worse experiences than most to remember and who was only just recovering; Luna Lovegood, who saw her mother die before her and who was never really the same again; Neville Longbottom, who had parents that were once honorable and loving and were now insane, and who had family members that did many terrible things in the name of bringing out his potential.

Blaise Zabini, whose dad he had loved and had been killed by his mother for money; Draco Malfoy, who had seen his father in a drunken rage before; Pansy Parkinson, who had asked her mother once about the necessity of marriage and had been told forcefully of her worth only as an object; Astoria Greengrass, only eleven, who dreamed of a different life and who had once seen the family magic disown an ex-cousin. 

Ron Weasley, who had once looked into the cold marble face of the White Queen, and who had made the choice to sacrifice himself. Ron Weasley, who had followed the spiders to help his friend, who had faced his worst fear. Ron Weasley, who had seen his best friends in danger and would see it again. Ron Weasley, who had driven his father’s flying car into the Whomping Willow, breaking his brother’s old wand and putting his dad’s job at risk. Ron Weasley, who had been standing in the darkness of a cupboard when the staff said that his sister had been taken. 

Hermione Granger, who had been cornered by a mountain troll in a bathroom. Hermione Granger, who had confronted her fear of authority in spite of the risk of being expelled and losing this new world– losing everything. Hermione Granger, who had helped carry a baby dragon up to the Astronomy Tower and had suffered ridicule and hatred from the rest of the school for doing something good. Hermione Granger, who had sat alone on the train when she was twelve and worried about being abandoned. Hermione Granger, who had seen bright yellow eyes in the reflection of a pocket mirror and had then seen nothing more. 

But even they had not suffered what Harry Potter had.

Harry Potter had killed a man when he was eleven. Harry Potter had been bitten by a basilisk in an effort to save his best friend’s sister. Harry Potter had fought against the manipulation of the worst kind of Dark Magic and one of the most evil fragments of a madman’s soul. Harry Potter had lived through ten years of abuse. Harry Potter was a pawn of older and smarter people, but not of anyone who was nobler or braver or kinder.

More than that– when Harry Potter was only one year old, his mother was killed in front of him. This is what he heard when the Dementors came onto the train. 

There had been a scream. 

When he woke up, Remus Lupin offered him chocolate, and he did his best to forget it. 

***

In November, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor played a Quidditch game in a pouring deluge of rain under the dark sky.

When Dementors streamed onto the field, it took a moment for Harry Potter to notice it. He was already cold and miserable.

What made him realize his situation wasn’t what he felt, but rather, what he didn’t.

Suddenly the rush of adrenaline that came whenever he flew was gone. Suddenly the blood pounding in his head had gone silent. Even the rain and thunder and roars of the crowd had gone mute.

He whirled around in the air, searching for them, beginning to freeze. His body was wracked with shivers, and he saw them. The wraith-like creatures in their dark hoods were streaming onto the field. He felt an absence of heat in his chest. The hum of his magic had been cut off. He had no happiness, no joy– there was no possibility that he could ever be happy again. 

This quiet and manic despair was all that existed.

What was the point of holding on?

There was wind and rain cutting at his skin. He pitched forward in the air and slipped from his broom, but wasn’t aware of it. The crowds began to scream; Cedric Diggory jerked towards him, the Snitch in his palm forgotten; all the players in red and gold dived for Harry as he fell–

_“Kill me instead,” said a firm and unyielding voice. Like a warrior, or a goddess. It wasn’t that she unafraid, it was that she was standing against him anyway–_

_“Stand aside, you silly girl.” Coldness, callousness, cruelty. Madness, not like a Dementor’s, but similar. This voice held pain, and cruel exhilaration in the face of it._

_“No,” said the warrior. “Don’t kill him. Kill me instead.” Her red hair was a ring of flame around her. She stood in uneatheral beauty, her head held high– this was her bravery– this was the depth of her soul–_

_There was a scream. A flash of light, the color of his own eyes._

_The absence of life. A goddess falling to the floor. She looked beautiful in that moment, her eyes defiant and glassy. This was a fortitude unknown to even this best of mortals, this was a deity falling in grace, sealing powerful magic around the child she had died to protect–_

_There was a flash of green._

Harry knew no more.

***

In January, Remus Lupin opened the lid of a trunk, and a Boggart emerged from its depths. This Boggart saw a tiny boy with large green eyes, and it became a Dementor.

Harry Potter clung desperately to his own mind. He could feel himself slipping away. 

_The first time I rode a broom, the wind in my face and the joy of being good at something without needing to be taught, the feeling of freedom and belonging._

But his vision clouded, and so did his memories. 

_There was a crash. A man with dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes and glasses leapt to his feet. “Lily, it’s him! Take Harry! I’ll hold him off! Go!”_

_This man was brave and noble and true. This was a man who had grown into who he was meant to become, this was a man who was about to lose everything he had. He’d already lost a friend tonight– the figure in the doorway was proof–_

_This was a man who left his wand on a stained coffee table, left it where he’d been using it to make his child laugh._

_This man– his dark eyes, and the graceful curve of his face– this man ran straight towards his death, and he would do it again and again. He saw bright red eyes– felt a morbid satisfaction– there would be no parents to inform of his murder, they were already dead, he’d be meeting them soon– he prayed to the magic in his veins that his wife and son would survive._

_A flash of green, and a thud of a body hitting the floor._

_Next there was red hair– a plea and a warrior’s defiance– an awful scream– the graceful beauty of someone who was never supposed to die, a goddess falling with the poise of her station– a mother who was dead._

_There was green light again._

Harry awoke to the tight face of his professor, the man who was once his family.

He insisted on trying again, not because of Quidditch or because of his pride. He faced the fake Dementor again and again so he could see his mother and father as they had existed. It was the worst moment of his life– the most terrible– it had ruined him. But it was the only piece of his parents that he had within his grasp. 

He was weak and ill that night. He made little progress with the Patronus Charm.

It was partially because he had no desire to lose the things he’d seen. 

***

In January, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor played each other on the Quidditch pitch. 

When dark figures walked onto the field below, it was easy for Harry to cast the Patronus charm.

He was conflicted about the ease of his reaction until Professor Lupin told him that they hadn’t been Dementors at all. 

Well, that explained it. There had been nothing to lure him into the darkness, nothing to surrender himself to. He hadn’t pushed the memory of his parents with his magic, but he had frightened Draco Malfoy quite a bit. 

So that was fine. 

He was still uneasy about it.

He wondered what he would do the next time he fought a real Dementor. 

***

In June, Harry Potter stood on a lake front with Sirius Black and Hermione Granger. Sirius had collapsed on the ground, seeing things that no one else could, slipping further into insanity.

Wracked with some dark and unnamable emotion, Harry asked Hermione to cast the charm with him. He didn’t know if he could even do it now, didn’t know if he could choose to turn away from his parents' voices and faces. 

He had a godfather beside him, and one of his best friends. He had people that he needed to protect. There had never been real stakes before. Only his own soul had been at risk, and really– wasn’t that a risk he was willing to take?

But here, now, he had to try.

And he honestly did.

But it was so easy to give in by now. It was so simple. 

_A man with dark eyes and dark hair and glasses stood sharply. “Lily, it’s him! Take Harry!” He was a noble man, a good man._

He focused, breathed through the cold and the unbearable shaking of his chest.

_”Stand aside, you silly girl.”_

_“No. Don’t kill him. Kill me instead.” A woman of fire with green eyes burned to the ground. She was an unearthly thing, she was beautiful._

He couldn’t do it.

He heard a scream.

He fell into darkness, but not before he saw a light. 

***

When Harry and Hermione hid at the other end of the lake, watching their past selves, they were far enough away that the effects of the Dementors didn’t reach them.

Harry waited feverishly, his thoughts racing through his brain. 

The person had looked like his dad. It wasn’t actually him. This year he had grown more familiar with his father than ever before. He desperately wanted James Potter to have been the one to save his life, but he knew better. He had seen James Potter hit the ground. He had seen James Potter charge Lord Voldemort without a wand in hand.

Again and again he had seen his dad die, all within his worst and most desperate memory. Which meant someone else had cast the stag Patronus from across the lake, just meters from where Harry was crouched next to Hermione.

He stood, ran out to the clearing by the water.

_”Expecto Patronum!”_

It worked, because of course it did. The spell had never been the problem. The temptation had been the problem. And the Dementors could not affect him from across the lake.

He withstood a scolding from Hermione, and he saved his godfather, and he snuck back into the hospital wing.

Days later, on the train back to London, he felt a pit in his stomach. He still hadn’t overcome his greatest fear.

The Dementor itself was not actually what he was afraid of. It was not actually what the Boggart had preyed on.

It was a noble fear, a mature fear, an impressive fear. _Fear itself._

It wasn’t Harry’s. Harry’s greatest fear was giving in. His greatest fear was succumbing to the worst of his mind. Driving himself insane, letting his soul be taken, falling into the glimpse of a life that he could never have. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation when it really mattered. He worried that he would lose himself and let the people he cared about be taken, too. 

And that was what had happened, wasn’t it? His worst fear had come true. If he faced a Dementor again, he didn’t know if he’d be able to fight it. They wouldn’t have time-travel as a failsafe the next time. Somebody could lose their soul, and they might be someone who didn’t want to. 

Harry fiddled with his wand the entire train ride. He didn’t put it down. 

***

In June of 1995, Harry Potter was making his way through a maze on the Quidditch pitch. He couldn’t see or hear the cheering crowd, and he had no clue where Cedric or Viktor or Fleur were.

He came across a Dementor. 

Panicked, he held up his wand. The edges of his vision were already starting to become hazy. His mind was fuzzy. He heard the familiar and distant voice of his dad.

_”Expecto Patronum!”_

The spell was weak. Harry’s stag did not form. But the light hit the Dementor, and the wraith-like being stumbled.

With a wave of relief, Harry hastily cast a second spell.

_“Riddikulus!”_

He continued on. The darkness that had been in the back of his mind since last year was more prevalent, though.

***

In August of 1995, Dementors appeared in Little Whinging. Harry was panicking. His cousin was laying on the ground, sobbing and whimpering. He didn’t want to think about what Dudley’s worst memory was, but he knew what his would be. 

Except, when the Dementors got closer:

_“Kill the spare.”_

_There was a flash of green light._

_Cedric’s pale and startled face stared up at him, youthful but lined with the weight of expectation. Horrible, seething guilt and grief filled him. This was his fault._

_He looked up into the snivelling face of a traitor. Peter Pettigrew seemed afraid._

With tangible relief still mixed with a well of despair from what he’d seen, Harry took a step backwards. 

_”Expecto Patronum!”_

For the first time, the spell was easy even in the face of the Dementors. There was nothing he wanted to relive from that night in June. Nothing he ever wanted to think about again. He would have nightmares tonight, he knew, but that was fine. He would still have his soul. He found that without the temptation that came with losing his soul, he still wanted it. 

So his stag chased the Dementors off down the street, and he hauled Dudley back to Number 4 with Mrs. Figg, and he was expelled and then un-expelled and then scheduled for a hearing.

That was okay, he was pretty sure.

There were worse things.

***

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was an absolutely miserable place to live. Sirius had grown up here, and Harry felt that he shouldn’t be confined to it again while recovering from long-term Dementor exposure. Especially because Harry was pretty sure that a lot of what Sirius saw when Dementors came near him had happened in this very house. 

So really, he kind of hated it on principle.

Several days into his stay at the Order’s headquarters, he came across Mrs. Weasley, sobbing in the drawing room upstairs. Lying in front of her was Ron. He was dead.

The world seemed to come rushing in around Harry. Ron– Ron couldn’t be dead– he _couldn’t_ be– 

Harry was drowning, his lungs were filling with water. If Ron was dead, then Harry wanted to–

 _“R– r– riddikulus!”_ Mrs. Weasley cried.

There was a loud crack, and then Bill was lying on the ground, his arms spread out and blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

A rush of relief came towards Harry before he’d even registered that it wasn’t really Bill’s corpse, and it made Harry enormously guilty, his skin itching with the weight of it.

Bill was– he _liked_ Bill. He hoped to Merlin that Bill never died. But… if the cost of his life was Ron’s death…

Then Harry knew what he would choose. That probably made him a terrible person. Most people, he observed in a detached manner, preferred not to consider these kinds of things.

But– Ron was one of his own. He would burn down London to keep Ron alive, and the same was true for Hermione or Sirius. It was… not really a pleasant thought. But it was true. These days, Harry was trying not to lie to himself. 

With enormous effort, he pulled himself from his thoughts, watching as Bill’s corpse became Mr. Weasley’s. He knew he should step in– he could deal with Boggarts. But… he knew what he would see. And he wanted nothing _less_ than to step into the confrontation, which was how most people reacted to Boggarts, he supposed. Screw what the Order said about the benefits of knowing Voldemort had returned; that June night haunted him. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since before the Third Task. 

It felt cowardly. The shame seeped into his skin. But he didn’t move. He almost couldn’t. 

There was another crack, and then it was Charlie’s corpse, and then the twins– Molly Weasley saw them as one entity, even in death– and then Percy’s, and then Ginny’s. 

There was another crack, and then stunningly, shockingly, a dead Harry was lying on the ground.

This… didn’t particularly bother him. Him dying was not exactly what he’d call a novel concept. What hit him in the gut– what nearly sent him staggering backwards– was the fact that his death was one of Molly Weasley’s biggest fears, alongside the death of her own family. 

He suddenly felt incredibly unworthy to be standing in here as she did this, as she drove herself to hysterics while he watched.

“Mrs. Weasley!” He yelled. “Get out of here! Let someone else–”

Very suddenly, Lupin and Sirius burst through the door. 

Lupin’s eyes swept the room, and he acted quickly. He jumped in front of the Boggart, which became a full moon.

 _“Riddikulus!”_ He intoned.

The moon turned into a balloon and deflated.

Lupin immediately crossed the room to comfort Mrs. Weasley, while Sirius stared at where the Boggart had lain as Harry’s corpse, and Harry himself stood stock still with shame and fear and guilt.

He _hated_ Boggarts. He hated Dementors, too. 

***

When he next ran into Dementors, he was not in his own skin. He was Albert Runcorn, an apparently condescending man who supported anti-Muggle policies. Mr. Weasley didn’t seem to like him. Harry didn’t care much for Runcorn either, as he looked down at a sobbing Mary Cattermole. 

He wondered, if he got close to a Dementor as Albert Runcorn, would he relive Harry Potter’s worst memories? Or would he see the worst experiences of this man, who had a senior position in the Ministry?

If a Dementor got too close to Mary Cattermole, who was on trial for having Muggle heritage, Harry would step in. He had to. 

But would what he’d see give him away?

It turned out it didn’t matter much– a Dementor did try to Kiss Mrs. Cattermole, in the chaos after Dolores Umbridge was stunned, but he cast his Patronus from a distance and it drove the Dementor back. He was glad of it. He could likely deal with Runcorn’s worst memories, but his own? 

He couldn’t afford to fall into his own grief right now. 

He wondered, what would the Ministry officials have thought if Albert Runcorn not only stepped in to protect a Muggle-born, but if he also collapsed into hysterics at the confrontation? If he started begging and sobbing and screaming?

If he started calling out to Cedric, and to Sirius, and to Dumbledore, how long would it take for him to be figured out?

He pondered with morbid curiosity: How many people had his specific brand trauma? Nobody. Nobody at all. Perks of being the Chosen One, he supposed.

***

The next time he came across Dementors, they were Hogsmeade. The Caterwauling Charm was going off, and a Dementor was swooping towards Ron. The image of Molly Weasley’s Boggart flashed in his mind, and before the cold could begin to seep into his chest, he cast.

 _Warm days in Gryffindor Tower, Dean reading_ The Once and Future King _aloud in the dormroom, Seamus starting a pillow fight, Neville growing dancing daisies by the bathroom door, Ron’s ratty pajamas…_

_Hermione chewing on the end of her quill as she did homework, Ginny wrestling Ron in front of the fireplace, Fred and George placing bets and setting off sparklers, Lavender trying to paint my toenails, Parvati playing Muggle records on an old gramophone…_

It always took effort– he’d never yet cast a Patronus in the face of a Dementor as well as he’d done to save Dudley’s soul, which was ironic. He thought it was because of the relief he’d been feeling at no longer being tempted by what the Dementors made him relive. It had given him a boost. 

But he still found Dementors hard. They crippled him, crippled his magic. If not for wanting to give in to them anymore, then for wanting too desperately to shut them out. When he had practiced with Professor Lupin years ago, it hadn’t been to stave off fear, but to stave off longing, or perhaps to give into it. 

He’d never had practice with blocking out the nightmares that the Dementors rolled in with them. 

His worst memory hadn’t been a _fear_ back then, but a mourning. A deep and scarring grief. And in some ways it had soothed his soul. 

He could cast a Patronus just fine, but the darkness hindered him. With effort, he produced a stag to stop himself from gaining a new worst memory, and Aberforth Dumbledore got them into Hogwarts.

***

Later that night, he encountered the Dementors again, and again he had Ron and Hermione at his side.

But–

But they were tired. Harry was exhausted. Fred was dead, and who else had already been killed? 

Was there a point in fighting?

The memory that came upon him when the Dementor’s mist came close was the image of Fred, of one half of a whole, of his last laugh etched carefully on his face. It was the image of Percy, crying great and horrible sobs over his brother’s mutilated body. He saw Percy charging off after Augustus Rookwood, seething and spitting, more angry and anguished than Harry had thought Percy could ever possibly be.

He saw himself holding Ron back from following after.

He saw a family torn apart, and he despaired.

Slowly, though, light crept back in. 

A silver hare, a glowing fox, a snuffling boar. 

Patronus lit the path towards them, driving away the mist, and in their paths came Luna and Seamus and Ernie. 

Harry wanted to cry.

Ron’s terrier sparked into existence, yapping at everyone’s ankles and charging after the Dementors. Hermione’s otter joined in a second later, paddling loops in the air.

Harry’s wand remained at his side.

***

After the battle, things were messy.

There was… a lot to do. 

But eventually, it was time for Harry to move on. He considered, very briefly, working as an Auror. He had wanted to when he was fifteen– or maybe he’d thought he’d needed to– but now… now he had way too many worst memories. He didn’t need anymore.

He applied for the DADA post at Hogwarts.

***

During his interview with Headmaster McGonagall, she insisted that he call her Minerva.

And then she said: “Well, of course, there’s little to ask about. I know very well that you were always the top of your class in Defence… You could cast a Patronus at thirteen, for Godric’s sake… yes–”

“Er,” said Harry.

McGonag– Minerva looked up.

“I actually… I can’t reliably cast a Patronus.”

She blinked.

“I can do it just fine in a no-pressure scenario. But… I always struggle with it during moments of crisis. I’ve only ever done it right once in front of a Dementor. I would not trust my own skills with the Patronus Charm to protect students.” 

Minerva blinked again. Then she sat back. “You’re aware that the Patronus Charm is… considered one of your specialities? Your signature spell, if you will, discounting the Disarming Charm.” 

Harry shrugged. “Well. It’s not.”

Minerva tilted her head. “Mr. Potter… have you ever considered a different teaching post?” 

Harry blinked. “What did you have in mind?”

By that September, he was the new Care of Magical Creatures teacher, and Hagrid was having fun at a Romanian dragon reserve with Charlie. Harry had an understanding with the Defence Professor, former-Slytherin Gemma Farley, that her curriculum would cover Dementors and Boggarts both. He would cover every other Dark Creature in his own lessons.

He and Gemma and Neville, the new Herbology Professor, got together for tea three times a week. Gemma rotated them all through her vast tea cup collection. Neville brought the tea. Harry offered his office as a meeting place, located on the ground floor of the castle. 

On odd days, Ron would Floo in from his office in the DMLE with a box of Mrs. Weasley’s fudge, and Hermione from her office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

Every other week, Filius and Minerva would join them. Eventually, Padma Patil became the Potions Professor, and then she would have tea with them, too. 

Sometimes Ginny would skip out on practice, still in her Holyhead Harpies uniform, to chug tea and laugh with them. 

Luna came by sporadically, talking about making friends with Theodore Nott and travelling in Sweden. Whenever she and Ginny were there at the same time, they would leave together, arm in arm.

Once a month, George would sit with them, not saying much of anything for a long while.

In May of that first school year, Neville sat down in his usual armchair to a fart noise, and his skin suddenly turned green. George beamed as he explained his latest product.

“It’s inspired by Muggle whoopee cushions,” he’d explained, grinning, and Harry had laughed hard enough that it almost felt like Fred was laughing along with him. 

Filius had complimented the charmwork, and Padma had smirked at Neville’s bemused expression.

Gemma had cornered George before he left and asked for a shipment of several dozen. Harry raised an eyebrow at the request. 

“My students are getting a bit too complacent in my classroom,” she said innocently. 

“Ah,” George had nodded wisely. “Yes, I see the issue.”

Two days later, a Deluxe Weasley Wizard Wheezes gift box showed up in her office. The periodic pranking of students became tradition in Professor Farley’s classroom. 

Just to keep their guards up, you understand.

***

After three years of working as a teacher at Hogwarts, Harry said to his friends very suddenly:

“Does anyone know a good book for learning Occlumency?”

His office was occupied by Gemma, Neville, Padma, Ron, and Hermione, all of whom raised their eyebrows in surprise. Ron and Hermione in particular looked stupefied.

“Why now?” Hermione asked.

Harry tilted his head back, swirling the tea in his cup. 

“...Did you know that I’m actually not very good at the Patronus Charm?”

Their faces were a mixture of skeptical and bemused, so Harry elaborated. “The actual charm is easy. I could probably wave my hand right now and bring Prongs out, no problem. But the issue is doing it in front of a Dementor.”

Padma cocked her head. “Do you anticipate running into a Dementor anytime soon?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I… dislike having weaknesses.”

Neville and Gemma both nodded. 

“Is it the fear that incapacitates you?” Hermione asked, always too perceptive.

He hesitated. “Now, yes.”

“It didn’t used to be?” Ron asked. 

Harry shrugged. “It used to be a memory that made me want to give in to it. Now, I’d just rather not relieve what the Dementors make me see.” 

“I have a book on Mind Magic,” said Padma. 

“So does the Black family library,” said Hermione. She was the only one who used the Black family library, besides Bill and Fleur when they were looking for information on a vague curse. 

“I’ll take them both,” Harry said. “Thank you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s your library. Don’t thank me.”

He grinned. “But you’ll get the book out for me, won’t you?”

She didn’t respond, which was answer enough. 

“I just meditate,” said Neville.

Ron narrowed his eyes. “I’ve always wondered– do you grow weed in the greenhouses?”

Neville choked. That was answer enough, too. 

Harry tilted his head, considering, and Hermione hit him.


End file.
